By Aram Azad
Twenty years ago, I was born a boy, but deep inside, a different soul lived in me, a soul that made me different from my peers as a teenager. As an adolescent, I looked delicate and beautiful. This appearance set me apart from the rest of society. I was either rejected from society or became a prey to the lust of adult and powerful men. I was isolated. This situation made me leave school in the ninth grade.
After school, I made a living among the rich, dancing at their parties and receiving money in return. My troubles and fears stayed with me. Sometimes I was raped, sometimes I was tortured, and sometimes I wasn’t paid.
Gradually, my relatives found out about both my work and sexual orientation. They told my father to either stop me or kill me. I had no choice but to leave my homeland of Panjshir for refuge in Kabul. I caused my father pain because I was different, my job, and the countless taunts of the people. In the end, he died of grief. My father’s death left an eternal pain in my heart.
I lived with my boyfriend who loved me. I felt safe with him. But then, the Taliban began advancing rapidly. The provinces fell one after another. Many people came to Kabul from provinces that had fallen to the Taliban. At the same time, my mother, who had always been kind to me, was badly ill. She came to my house in Kabul, along with my two sisters and my 13-year-old brother. With my father’s death and considering my mother’s illness, I was responsible for the family. Though my boyfriend and I lived in the Shahr–e-Nau area of Kabul, I decided to rent a house for my mother and siblings in the Karte-char area.
Their daily expenses and the cost of my mother’s treatment brought added responsibilities. I had to go to more parties and dance more often than usual, regardless of the fear that the Taliban was rapidly approaching the capital. The night before that ominous day, I was dancing at a party until late at night. I arrived home at dawn. My boyfriend was at his mother’s. Exhausted, I fell asleep immediately only to be woken after a few hours by my boyfriend’s call. He said that the Taliban had taken over the city and I shouldn’t leave the house.
I was panic-stricken. I told myself, “Your death is here, Azad Khan.” I thought of my boyfriend and worried about him. I thought of my mother and siblings. What would become of them? What would happen if the Taliban found out I am a gay? What would they do to my mother and siblings? What would happen to my boyfriend? I was filled with concerns.
I spent the first month of the Taliban takeover at home, filled with fear. My mother’s health condition worsened due to fear of the Taliban and because she was worrying about me. Not long after, she died. My two sisters and teenage brother were left alone. The moment I learned about my mother’s death, I took a taxi to their house. On the way, the Taliban stopped the taxi and ordered me out. They checked my phone and found out that I was homosexual and danced at parties. They took me to the police station. I was beaten and tortured. They did a lot of other indecent things to me that I don’t want to talk about.
I was released after two days, but they told me that I must show up at the police station whenever they called. After that day, I was arrested several more times by the Taliban. I was gang-raped. I was tortured, physically and mentally.
I had no place to go in Afghanistan. Meanwhile, I had to decide for my siblings, too. I sent my sisters back to our family home in Panjshir where our aunts and uncles would take care of them. I had my brother stay with me because he too is different, like me. He feels like he was born in the wrong body. We decided to leave Afghanistan.
I consulted my boyfriend and we agreed to leave Afghanistan, but I was the only one to have a passport. My boyfriend knew someone who could smuggle my brother to Iran, so I gave enough money for him to be sent there. My boyfriend managed to get a Pakistani visa for me. We planned that I would go to Pakistan first, and he would join me later. My boyfriend accompanied me to the border, but after he left, the Taliban arrested me.
The Taliban asked about my origins and where I was headed. “I’m a student heading to Pakistan to continue my education,” I answered. They looked at me lustfully. They said I wasn’t old enough to travel on my own and ordered me to stay in the interrogation room until my parents picked me up. Then, they asked for my passport. When they found out that I was from Panjshir, they became even more stringent. They gave me back my passport and imprisoned me in a room that had a stinking restroom. It had a small window. I thought of what the Taliban could do to me if I stayed, so I decided to escape. I opened the window and jumped out, not knowing that it was the second floor. I was badly injured but kept running. I took the first taxi that I saw and told the driver that I would pay anything if only he would take me to Kabul. The driver took me to my boyfriend’s house. As soon as I arrived, I fainted in his arms. When I woke up, I was at the hospital.
My boyfriend took care of me until I got well. It took him three months to get his passport and visa for Pakistan. We decided to go by plane this time. I was filled with fear. I trembled with fear whenever I saw a Taliban soldier. I would think that one of them would recognize me and would certainly kill me this time. Luckily, I wasn’t recognized, and we took off safely.
It has been a while since I’ve been living in Pakistan. I escaped death, but my worries and pains haven’t let go of me yet. I am still worried about my siblings. I found out that my brother had been captured by the Taliban on his way to Iran and is still in prison. He was spotted by his Panjshiri dialect and then separated from the other passengers. He was told to take the Taliban soldiers to a close relative of ours. Although my brother took the Taliban soldiers to that relative, the Taliban still wouldn’t release him.
My older sister has fallen ill due to grieving for our deceased parents, the mental pressure she is under, and fear of the Taliban and their restrictions. Now, she stammers and cannot speak the way she used to. My younger sister is also ill. Her tonsils need to be removed, but we have no money to treat her. According to Afghanistan traditions, I am responsible for my siblings, but I cannot do anything for them from here. This is my biggest suffering.
Aram Azad is the pen name of a queer Afghan.
